


Words of Comfort

by MermaidMarie



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-23 06:09:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20003578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MermaidMarie/pseuds/MermaidMarie
Summary: Prompt on Tumblr: things you said when I was crying.In which Eliot comforts Quentin.





	Words of Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to awenswords on Tumblr for this prompt!

Quentin didn’t usually cry during his depressive episodes.

His depression wasn’t so much a tidal wave or a hurricane as it was a drought. It was like everything he felt got dried up. He’d get numb, careless, empty. Food didn’t taste good anymore. Movies didn’t make him laugh or hurt or smile or cry. Music didn’t calm him. The sun didn’t warm him.

Whatever, it was manageable enough. Quentin was used to it, more or less. As much as you could ever get _used_ to having chronic clinical depression.

It was like getting used to anything miserable. You compartmentalize, you deal, you dismiss. You minimize.

So that’s what Quentin did; he pushed it aside. As much as he could, anyway.

But this wasn’t one of Quentin’s typical depressive episodes.

He wasn’t sure exactly what it was—fuck, maybe it was the medication change. Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was his dad getting sick, or his mom’s passive aggressive messages, or the change in scenery. Maybe it was all of it. There was a lot going on, and it had been overwhelming, and the dam just kind of _broke._

In any case, Quentin had been having, well, a _time._

He had to keep avoiding people. It wasn’t like they didn’t _know_ he was depressed—Quentin didn’t exactly hide it. They were grad students, anyway, weren’t they all _kind of_ depressed? Well, like, maybe not in _quite_ the same way as Quentin, but still. 

That didn’t mean he was super into the idea of people seeing him cry. Not because he was embarrassed. Whatever, who cared, they’d watched _The Neverending Story_ all together in the Cottage one night, everyone knew he had functioning tear ducts.

No, the thing he hated was that _look_ people got on their faces sometimes. That mix of panic, pity, and impatience. He didn’t need anyone feeling sorry for him. He didn’t need anyone telling him to _lighten up_ or _get over it._ And he really didn’t need to have people look at him different, like he was fucking _fragile_ or something.

He’d been dealing with this bullshit his whole life. He knew how to manage it, mostly, but yeah, sometimes he was more of a disaster than other times. What else was new.

So Quentin was keeping his head down as he was trying to get through the Cottage to hide in his room for a while.

This would pass, it _always_ passed, but he just needed some time alone, and—

“Q?”

_Fuck._

Quentin panicked, mumbled something incoherent that he hoped sounded like an excuse, and half-fled into his room.

He held his breath, leaning against the door. Hoping he got away with it.

He stifled a groan when there was a light knock on the door.

“Hey, Q?” Eliot said, tentatively. “You alright?”

“Um,” Quentin replied. _Brilliant, Q, you’ve definitely convinced him you’re fine._

“May I come in?”

Defeated, Quentin sighed, pushing himself off of the door and opening it. He stepped to the side, hiding his face behind his hair as he let Eliot into the room.

Eliot closed the door, moving in front of Quentin. He reached out slowly, tucking Quentin’s hair behind his ear and brushing tears from his cheeks gently with his thumb.

Quentin leaned away a little, curling in on himself. “Look, I’m fine,” he mumbled. “It’s nothing. I’m, um, I’m fine.”

“Sure.”

“It’s really nothing.”

“Right, of course.”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m agreeing with you.”

Quentin rolled his eyes, heading to sit on his bed. He tucked his legs into his chest, resting his chin on his knees. Eliot followed him, sitting close to him. He rested a hand on Quentin’s leg, rubbing his thumb against it.

“It’s just—” Quentin started. There was this thing about Eliot—he just made Quentin blurt out his feelings, whatever he was thinking. It was weird, because there was something so _intimidating_ about Eliot, too, but Quentin couldn’t help it. He just wanted to tell Eliot everything. “It’s not always like this, y’know? I don’t know, I mean, I—like, having this _thing,_ it usually just feels like everything is pointless and empty or whatever.”

Eliot shifted closer, moving his arm over Quentin’s shoulders. Quentin found himself leaning in.

“It doesn’t usually feel so… I don’t know. Fucking—like, _sad,_ or something,” Quentin went on, sniffling a little. He tried to cover it, but he doubted it worked, especially considering the way Eliot gently squeezed his shoulder and pulled him in tighter. “I mean, like—usually, I can just, I don’t know. Distance myself? Feel numb to the whole pointlessness of life? But, uh. It’s different. Right now. I just… Fuck, Eliot. I don’t… I don’t _want_ to feel like this.”

His voice broke completely on the last sentence, the tears basically streaming down his face. God, it was so _fucking_ hard, why did everything seem so easy for everyone else? How was everyone else just _living,_ and Quentin’s stupid broken brain couldn’t just pull itself together?

He didn’t want to go _back,_ things were supposed to be _better_ now. He had magic—he had this _place,_ these people. He wasn’t _supposed_ to feel like this anymore.

“I don’t know if it’ll help,” Eliot started slowly. “But, well. It’s _okay,_ Quentin.”

Quentin couldn’t help it—he scoffed.

Eliot let out a short chuckle. “I know how it sounds. And trust me, I know how it sounds coming from _me._ But you’re going to be alright, Q. You’ve had good days—they’ll come back. And in the meantime, well, it’s okay that everything sucks right now. It happens.”

“Doesn’t feel okay,” Quentin muttered into Eliot’s shoulder. He felt so childish, but like—it _didn’t_ feel okay. It felt like it was never going to be okay again.

“Hm, I know,” Eliot said, kissing his forehead lightly. “It’s certainly no fun.”

“I just—I wanna be okay.”

“Oh, Q.” Eliot rubbed Quentin’s arm. “At the risk of sounding like an after-school special, you _will_ be okay. I promise.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Quentin replied, his mouth twitching up in a slight smile.

“Of course, I expect you to.” Eliot leaned away a little to look Quentin in the eyes. “I do hate to see you sad, but it’s alright to not be okay for a while. I’ll be here with you while we wait it out.”

The sincerity in his tone and gaze was a little staggering. Quentin so rarely saw Eliot get that serious. He felt his throat tighten, a very different kind of tear welling in his eyes.

“Thanks,” Quentin said, his voice soft.

“Don’t mention it,” Eliot said kindly. He paused, his expression reverting back to the cool aloof cat-like look Quentin knew so well. “No, really, don’t mention it. I’d _hate_ for word to get out that I can be nice and comforting. It would _completely_ ruin my reputation, and I simply can’t have that.”

Quentin snorted. “I think people already know, El.”

Eliot shook his head, scoffing dramatically. “How dare you, honestly.”


End file.
